The All-Star Raid
by Lisa-la
Summary: While restricted to camp, a cranky Hitch gets the guys - and their friend Spencer - into a situation some of them are completely unprepared for.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I'm not an athlete by any stretch of the imagination, so I apologize if I've gotten anything wrong, and I welcome friendly corrections.

The All-Star Raid

"I can't believe this!"

The afternoon sun made long, awkward shadows as the two privates headed across the dusty compound to the mess hall. The Rat Patrol had just returned from three weeks in the field, and Mark Hitchcock and Tully Pettigrew had finished servicing their jeeps and "bedding them down for the night," as Tully liked to say. It was Hitch who had spoken, kicking at the sand in disgust.

Tully shook his head. "Nothing we can do about it now. Just the Brits' way of doing it this time."

"Three days off, and we can't leave camp," Hitch groused. "That almost guarantees they'll cancel it and send us back out! We're so close to the coast here, and we can't even go for a swim. Half the time, they act like they don't even want us here. I bet if we were with an American unit, this wouldn't be happening."

Tully seriously doubted that American officers would be much different from British ones, in this case, but decided not to get into that, just now. Getting Hitch all worked up would only make the next few days more difficult to get through. He looked around the camp, desperate for something to distract his friend.

"Look," he said, pointing to a crowd of men on an open space behind the supply tent. "What's going on over there?"

Hitch stopped walking and looked. "Looks like a game. Is that Spencer?" he added after a moment.

Sure enough, a dozen young men wearing various parts of the Eighth Army's uniform were running from one end of the field to the other, chasing after a round leather ball. Diverting from their trip to the enlisted mess, the two Americans headed over to the sidelines to watch. It was indeed their friend, Drew Spencer – not leading the charge, but not too far back in the pack, either.

"What's the score?" Tully asked the man beside him, out of idle curiosity. The man looked him over, taking in the American uniform, and shrugged.

"Three to two," he replied. "Artillery's winning, but the medics are catching up." After a moment, and another uncertain glance at the newcomers, he added, "See, the point is to kick the ball between the jeeps at that end, or the tables at that end –"

"We know how it's played," Hitch interjected, but not as sullenly as Tully would have expected, given the younger man's mood. The Englishman shrugged again, and returned his attention to the game.

At that moment, a corporal on the other side of the makeshift field, who had been studying the watch in his hand to the virtual exclusion of all else, suddenly threw both hands in the air. "Time!" he cried.

The crowd of spectators erupted into celebration. The man beside Tully slapped him on the shoulder in jubilation, then seemed to remember himself and headed off with his countrymen. Tully sighed. He didn't even know who won, but no one seemed to care anyway. He didn't understand these English guys sometimes.

XXXX

Drew Spencer was looking for his canteen, which he had left on one of the tables that was serving as a goal marker. There was a variety of other equipment there, discarded by players during the course of the game; and an ill-timed dive by the artillerymen's goalkeeper had resulted in a pile of gear on the ground, as well. The exercise and camaraderie had him in a good mood, so he didn't mind the search. They didn't get much opportunity to get a game up, these days, but he joined in whenever he could. Finally locating the canteen under the table, he crawled under to get it, and looked up to find two pair of American boots on the other side. He stuck his head out, and was pleased to see half of the Rat Patrol before him.

He had only spent a few days in the field with the mostly American team, but had liked them almost instantly. They had been friendly and welcoming, even after finding they had a "green" medic on their hands. He had been impressed with how much they knew of the desert and the enemy; that one trip had made him realize how much he still had to learn here. They had seen him through his first real combat, as well, which led to a level of trust that only such an experience could bring. He had only seen them a few times since, mostly for a beer or two when they were in camp for supplies, but he was glad to consider them all friends.

"Hello, lads," he greeted, crawling out from under the table and standing. "Did they finally let you come in for a bit?"

"Yeah, we've got three days," Tully replied, shaking the Englishman's hand in greeting.

"Three days stranded in camp," Hitch added ruefully, repeating the handshake.

Spencer gave him a curious look, but before either American could explain, a voice hailed them from across the field. "Here, Spencer! Leave off with those Yanks and come on!"

"Yeah," added another with a laugh. "Unless you're not interested in _intelligent_ conversation!"

Tully winced, and even Spencer could see that Hitch hadn't taken that well. "Hey, mind your own business, Tommy!" Hitch retorted. "We're talking here!"

There was a brief discussion among the group across the way, and then four men broke off and headed toward them. "Way to go, Hitch," Tully murmured.

"We _were_ talking," Hitch protested.

"Well, watch your mouth, now, or we'll be talking to Sarge about how we managed to pick a fight while walking to supper."

"Here, now," Spencer started, intercepting the four British soldiers. "I'll be along in a bit. Why don't you go on without me?"

"Not until we're sure this Yank knows his manners," replied one, a burly red-haired private from an artillery company.

Hitch started forward angrily at that, and the artilleryman moved to meet him, but Tully grabbed Hitch's shoulders and Spencer stepped between them.

"Tully, let me go!" Hitch growled.

"We got three days' leave, Junior; I ain't spending it in the stockade!"

"Look, surely there's a better way to settle this," Spencer added to the group at large.

The irate artilleryman studied the lighter-built, bespectacled American before him, then relaxed, a slow smile creeping over his face. "Sure there is, Spencer. On the field."

Spencer blinked in surprise.

"The _football_ field?" He could see that the other British soldiers had read Hitch as an easy mark, and he knew they were wrong, but this was getting out of hand. Shaking his head, he protested, "They're American, they don't play it the way we do!"

"On the field," the man repeated, still looking at Hitch. "Say, three days from now? Just after teatime. We'll play four-on-four, if you and your friend can find two more. If not, we'll draw lots to see who will be putting you Colonials in your place."

Tully, still holding Hitch's shoulders, was shaking his head, and Spencer was desperately trying to come up with another alternative; but Hitch was too angry now. "You're on!" he retorted. "Three days."

Tully, determined to support Hitch regardless, resisted the urge to stare at his friend in shock. Maybe the stockade wasn't such a bad idea, after all. As the others moved off, laughing at the foolish, hotheaded Yank, Tully slowly released his hold on Hitch and stepped back.

"That Turner can be such an idiot," Spencer murmured in disgust as they were left alone. "Sorry about that. I didn't know you played our type of football," he added curiously, then caught the look passing between the two Americans. His green eyes widened in shock. "Oh, no. _Oh, no_. Are you mad? You're really ready to make fools of yourselves over a stupid misunderstanding?"

Hitch was calming down now, and beginning to realize what he had gotten them into, but he wasn't ready to admit defeat, either. "So teach us how to play," he suggested, with the tone of a man issuing a dare.

Spencer was totally unprepared for that. "_What?_ It's sun stroke, isn't it?" he asked Tully. "His brain's melted in the heat!"

Tully shook his head in disbelief, wondering if he should go chase down their challengers and pop one of them in the face, just to get out of this; but Hitch wouldn't be put off. "Come on, Spencer, it can't be that hard a game. I was a good athlete back home, and Tully's pretty good at baseball."

"This is _not_ baseball, Hitch," Tully warned. They didn't play a lot of team sports where he grew up; there weren't enough kids to make a team. They had preferred individual competition – like target practice.

"Come on," Hitch wheedled, ignoring Tully.

Spencer stood staring at them for a long minute, then threw up his hands in resignation. "All right. At least we might keep you from total humiliation, if nothing else. We'll have to find a fourth, though."

Hitch grinned, amused that Spencer had automatically included himself on the team. "I think I have an idea who to ask," he replied.

XXXX

"You did _what_?" exclaimed Sergeant Jack Moffitt, after the two American privates and Spencer met the rest of the Rat Patrol in the enlisted mess, and the situation had been explained.

"We accepted a challenge to a soccer game," Hitch repeated, trying to sound sensible and confident while his two sergeants looked at him as if he'd lost his mind.

"_You_ accepted, buddy," Tully interjected. "Spencer and I were just there."

"But we need a fourth player," Hitch went on as if he hadn't heard. "I thought you might be able to help us out."

Moffitt looked stunned. He glanced at their leader, Sergeant Sam Troy, but the American only burst out laughing.

"Well, at least they managed to stay out of the stockade," Troy observed with a grin. When he had seen Hitch's reaction to the restrictions on their leave, he had been a little afraid to leave the kid alone. It had been a hard few weeks in the field, and being confined to camp when they returned had been the proverbial last straw. He was glad to see that Hitch had found an outlet for his frustration that didn't require his sergeant to finesse the MPs. And besides, this was going to be fun to watch.

Moffitt returned his attention to the three privates across from him. "Look here, Hitch, I haven't played since school – and I wasn't all that good at it then." The fact of the matter was, he had preferred studying to sports, but found that the game gave him a good break from his books, and his mother had stopped insisting he needed to get some fresh air. "Not every Englishman excels at this, you know."

"If you played at all, Sarge, you gotta be better than us," Tully pointed out, more-or-less resigned to the fact that he wouldn't be able to avoid this.

Moffitt looked to Spencer, who shrugged. "We've only got tomorrow and the next day, Sergeant. If we could at least teach them the basics, then –" he let his voice trail off, not sure how to complete the sentence without offending Hitch.

"—then maybe we could get the other guys really drunk and actually have a chance," Tully finished dryly, and Hitch finally acknowledged his presence with a glare.

Moffitt sighed. "Very well; I'll help you defend your honor, though how exactly it was impugned, I'm still not clear." He had enjoyed football as a boy, after all; and as his schedule for the next few days was hardly set in stone ….

"Thanks," Hitch grinned. Rising with his cup in hand, he asked, "More coffee, anyone?"

When he had moved off, no one having taken him up on the offer, Troy clapped Moffitt lightly on the shoulder and said, "Well, look at it this way: maybe Rommel will surrender before then."

"Or attack," Tully added. "I think I'd take it either way."


	2. Chapter 2

The four met the next morning, planning to teach the Americans some rudimentary skills before the hottest part of the day was upon them. Troy sent them off with another laugh; he had some reports to catch up on, but figured the picture of Hitch enthusiastically leading his somewhat reluctant teammates out to the field would keep him amused for the rest of the morning, at least.

They found an area behind the motor pool where they hoped not to attract onlookers, and started out just trying to move the ball from one end of the field to the other without losing control of it – a process Spencer called "dribbling". This proved to be more difficult than it looked – Hitch kept kicking the ball too hard, requiring him to retrieve it from under a parked truck several times, and Tully tripped over it twice, landing on his face in the dust.

"That's all right," Spencer encouraged, as he helped the Kentuckian up the second time. Moffitt stood off to the side shaking his head, one hand over his eyes.

"How do guys do this from one end of the field all the way to the other?" Tully asked in dismay, wiping sand off his face.

"Experience," Moffitt supplied. "And the field at this camp is much smaller than regulation, I believe."

Tully looked at Spencer, who nodded confirmation. "We just used the room we had available here. We rarely have enough lads for a full team, anyway."

"Guess we should be glad we don't have to cover a whole field with just the four of us," Hitch observed as he returned from running down the ball that attacked Tully.

"We've covered way more than that with only four guys," Tully retorted with a grin; it was clear he wasn't talking about a game.

"Actually, it's just three of us," Moffitt sighed. He was starting to become alarmed at how little the Americans knew of the game. When they looked at him in surprise, he explained, "Someone has to mind the goal."

"We'll get to that later," Spencer put in. "Let's get the dribbling down first."

Before too long, they had acquired some fairly respectable dribbling skills, in the sense that the ball went where they wanted it more than half the time, and no one got hurt. After a break for rest and water in the shade of a nearby truck, they decided to have a brief go at passing, before it got too hot. Spencer and Moffitt demonstrated the process first, Spencer dribbling for a short distance as Moffitt jogged alongside, then kicking the ball over to the sergeant with the inside of his foot.

When they had finished, they looked over to find their students staring at them, Hitch looking resigned to the amount of work he had ahead of him, and Tully shaking his head in dismay.

"I'm gonna end up on my face again; I can see it coming," the Kentuckian muttered, shooting Hitch an accusing look.

As it turned out, it wasn't tripping over the ball that was the problem now – it was altogether missing the intended receiver. After a half-hour of chasing runaway passes, they were interrupted by the sound of applause from nearby. Looking up, they found Troy approaching from the direction of the motor pool, laughing at them from under his bush hat.

"Well, you've made a little progress, I guess," he observed as the others gathered to meet him.

"Actually, we've made a great deal of progress," Moffitt corrected.

"Yeah, you don't know what we looked like when we started," Hitch added. "Hey, when are we going to learn to bounce it back and forth on our knees, Spence?"

"Ah, first let's learn feet, then knees," the medic said dryly.

"Tell me we got a mission, Sarge, _please_," Tully begged.

"Nope, no mission, Tully," Troy replied, grinning. "I just thought you'd be ready for lunch by now."

"Lunch'll do." Tully, who had been holding the ball, tossed it to an unprepared Hitch, who fumbled with it a moment before dropping it.

"See," Spencer observed over his shoulder, as he retrieved the ball and headed toward the mess tent with the others, "feet first, the rest later."

"So, how's it going?" Troy asked Moffitt, as they moved ahead of the three privates.

"Not too badly, considering they've never done this before. At least the army has us all in excellent shape. I can't imagine what possessed Hitch to agree to this. I can't imagine what possessed _me_ to agree to this!"

"Well, he was ticked off about having to stay in camp – pretty much guaranteed he'd find a way to get into trouble."

Moffitt nodded. After three weeks in the field, only coming in for an hour or two to re-supply before going back out, he had been ready to escape from the army for a while himself. But Intelligence seemed to think the Germans were getting ready for some kind of major offensive, and so Command wanted everyone where they could be reached quickly. Personally, Moffitt had just revised his plans to reading, writing letters, and enjoying the proximity of showers, hot meals and cots – only to have Hitch talk him into further revisions.

"At least he managed not to take a swing at that artillery fellow," Moffitt allowed after a moment. "Although I suspect Tully had a bit to do with that."

"Kinda out of character for him, too, when you think about it," Troy mused, glancing over his shoulder to be sure the others were bringing up the rear, but far enough back to not overhear the sergeants' conversation. "Guess we were all pretty worn out when we came in yesterday."

XXXX

Moffitt and Spencer gave a brief lesson on the rules and regulations of the game after lunch, and then they separated to find their own ways to pass the afternoon, catching up on their mail and lost sleep while it was too hot to play. They reconvened that evening for more passing drills, and then the English sergeant added another twist.

Hitch and Tully were moving the ball down the field, passing it between them, awkwardly but successfully, while Spencer shouted encouragement, when a khaki-clad blur shot between them, intercepting the ball and taking it in the opposite direction. Both Americans shouted in dismay and stopped to turn and see Moffitt dashing away from them. After a moment, they both began chasing him, but he successfully managed to evade them and return to Spencer's side, still in control of the ball.

"And that, gentlemen," the tall Englishman observed breathlessly, "is called 'an interception'."

"No kidding," Tully retorted, stooping to pick up the ball.

"We were just starting to feel good about this, too," Hitch complained – the first negative thing he'd said since he'd accepted the artilleryman's challenge.

"Can't have you getting too sure of yourselves," Moffitt replied with a grin. He was pleased both by the fact that he'd taken both men by surprise, and that he'd remembered enough from his childhood to accomplish the maneuver successfully. "There's still a lot of work to do tomorrow. I think we should stop now, though, and call it a night."

The others agreed, so they set out to collect Troy and seek out the evening's entertainment.

**XXXX**

The next morning found them back at their secluded practice site, setting up a makeshift goal. Troy, having enjoyed the tales of the previous day's exploits, had tagged along to sit by the parked vehicles and catch up on his letter writing as he watched.

"Don't these things usually have tops on them?" Hitch asked, surveying the two empty oil drums they had dragged over from the motor pool and set up at one end of the field. "How will we know when we've knocked it over the goal?"

"Ah, we don't." At the look he got from the two Americans, Spencer explained. "The top of the goal is about as high as a man can reach flat-footed, more-or-less. Here in camp, we just estimate. If the goalkeeper's feet were still on the ground, and he was pretty much vertical, it was too high. It's a sport, not a science," he added defensively, when neither looked convinced.

It took some persuasive talking, but in a few minutes Spencer was tending goal while Moffitt coached the others at penalty kicks and other approaches to the goal. Both Tully and Hitch tried different angles and approaches, but Spencer easily stopped all attempts, and morale among the Americans was going rapidly downhill. No one noticed Troy wandering over to join them until he spoke.

"Look, it's easy for him to stop a shot when it's just the two of you, going one at a time. He knows where it's coming from. You need to throw him off, distract him, get him to be in the wrong place at the wrong time – then you'll get by him." He realized they were all staring at him. "What?"

"Troy, that's just what we need," Moffitt said beside him. "A strategist."

Troy looked blank for a moment before catching on, raising a hand to point a warning finger at the English sergeant. "Oh, no, you don't. I don't know how to play, and you don't want to try and teach me."

"But you _do_ know how to get past enemy defenses and, if you'll pardon the pun, achieve the goal," Moffitt persisted. "Spencer and I can teach them the basics, but you can come up with actual plays."

"Yeah, Sarge," Hitch joined in hopefully, "you plan us out of tight places all the time."

"We could use the help," Tully added.

Troy delayed another moment, debating whether he wanted to get dragged into this circus act, and then nodded. "All right." Waving off the others' thanks and Hitch's enthusiastic grin, he said, "Just keep on with what you were doing and let me watch. We'll see what I come up with by your afternoon session."

**XXXX**

They spent most of the rest of the morning scrimmaging, Hitch and Spencer teamed against Moffitt and Tully, while Troy looked on. It wasn't the most skillfully-played soccer match in the North African theater, and no one kept score, but there was much shoving, joking and laughing. By the time they broke for lunch, the Americans were feeling more confident about the coming match than they had since accepting the challenge, even if the Englishmen still had their reservations.

When they reconvened on the field late that afternoon, they gathered around Troy to hear his observations.

"Okay, first of all: as I understand it, the only guy in this game who gets to use his hands is the goalkeeper, right?" Spencer and Moffitt both nodded, so he went on, "Tully, every time the ball comes at you higher than waist-level, you catch it."

"I can't help it, Sarge – it's self-defense!"

"Try ducking," Hitch teased, then took his own advice as Tully threw his shirt at him.

"Well," Troy interrupted, "either you learn not to use your hands, or we make you goalkeeper."

"I was thinking of that myself," Moffitt admitted.

Tully looked as though he was trying to decide if he should be insulted.

Spencer added, "You wouldn't have to worry about dribbling and passing."

"Good point," Tully agreed after a moment. "All right, I'll hold the fort."

"Good. The other thing we need to work on is hanging onto the ball while someone's trying to take it from you. There were so many turnovers in that game you played this morning, a guy could get whiplash. Also, it might be a good idea to practice passing the ball off just as you get to the goal. That's how you'll be able to throw off the goalkeeper – he'll be ready for the shot to come from the guy who shows up with the ball, so that should be the last guy to try it. Make sense?"

"Not bad for a fellow who never paid attention to the game before this morning," Moffitt said with a grin.

"Just common sense," Troy said, shrugging off the praise.

"And if I'd had some of that two days ago, we wouldn't be in this mess," Hitch muttered. He didn't want to admit it, but he was growing increasingly anxious as the time appointed for the match approached.

"Hallelujah, the light has dawned!" Tully laughed, clapping Hitch on the shoulder to show he was joking. "All right, let's get to it."


	3. Chapter 3

They agreed not to practice the next morning, to save their energy for the afternoon match. As the hour approached, they all gathered in the Rats' tent, going over last-minute plans and munching cookies sent by Tully's mother. Troy had disappeared, with a promise to be back in time to walk to the field with them.

"Be sure and get all the water you can," Spencer warned. "In a professional match there are no rest periods, except for halftime –"

"No time-outs?" Tully exclaimed.

"– but here we break regularly for water," Spencer continued. "Still, this will probably be a much longer match than we've played so far. We don't want to forfeit on account of sun stroke."

"Well, with Troy or without him," Moffitt said, checking his watch, "we'll be late if we don't go now."

They started out for the field behind the supply tent, slowly gathering a crowd of on-lookers as they went. The camp seemed to be abuzz with talk of the coming match, and by the time they reached their destination, it seemed as if everyone not on duty had turned out to watch. Tully was gratified to see Hitch's face slowly turn beet-red, as he realized what his bad mood of a few days before had brought on.

The four men who had issued the challenge met them at the edge of the field, the red-haired ringleader stepping forward to take charge.

"Spencer, what are you doing with them?" He asked in surprise.

"It was a stupid argument, Turner," Spencer replied, somewhat annoyed, "and this is an idiotic way of resolving it, challenging them to a game they don't know how to play. Didn't seem fair, so I thought I'd even it up."

Turner huffed in disbelief, and then nodded a guarded greeting at Moffitt. "Sergeant."

"Private," Moffitt returned with a raised eyebrow, secretly pleased that his presence seemed to have thrown the competition off just a bit. They clearly hadn't expected Hitch to secure British assistance. "Are we ready to begin?"

"Hang on a minute!" called a voice from nearby. Pushing his way through the crowd, Troy appeared at last, flanked by a slightly older gentleman in a British uniform, with a whistle on a cord around his neck.

"All set?" he asked. "It's about time to go."

"Where have you been?" Moffitt asked. "We thought you'd decided to disown us."

"Nah, not for this," Troy said with a grin, then gestured to his companion. "Gentlemen, I believe I have found an impartial referee – or umpire or whatever you call them in this game. This is Reverend Michael Warren, camp chaplain."

"Referee?" Turner exclaimed, only just beating several of the other players to it.

"Of course. You didn't expect to settle regulatory disputes in such an important match by secret ballot, did you?" the chaplain said calmly.

"Uh, no offense," Tully said, "but aren't you just a little biased, seeing that you're English and everything?"

"I _was_ born in Somerset," Warren allowed. "My father is English. But my mother grew up in Idaho. And I used to coach our team in church league at home, so I know how the game is played."

Tully nodded. Yup, that was about as impartial as they were going to get here.

"All right, then. Barring any objections, we'll use the usual camp rules for this match: forty minutes of play, two-minute breaks every ten minutes for water, all other rules to international standards." He paused, but there was no dissention. "Shall we play on, then, lads?" Warren took possession of the ball from a by-stander and headed for the center of the field, while three men from each side followed him and Tully and his counterpart headed for their goals.

The men of the Anglo/American team had agreed that Moffitt should represent them at the kickoff, owing to his advantages over Hitch in experience and over Spencer in size. He expected their opponents to send their ringleader out, and was surprised to see Turner take up a position further back on the field, while another man, smaller with close-cropped brown hair, stepped up to the center spot. Compounding Moffitt's astonishment, the younger man amiably extended his hand.

"Hello, Sergeant," the man said. "Name's Mitch Hooper."

"Jack Moffitt," he replied, accepting the handshake.

"Good game to you." Hooper stepped back to make room as the chaplain set the ball on the ground between them.

"Thank you; to you, as well." Moffitt was beginning to feel a little silly; if these fellows were so dead-set on putting the Americans in their presumed place, what was this one doing?

The answer was immediately apparent. Warren said, "Here we go!" and blew a long, loud blast on his whistle. Before Moffitt was even able to register what had happened, Hooper had dashed past him with the ball, and his two teammates nearly mowed Moffitt down following.

Turning to give chase, Moffitt could see Hitch and Spencer trying to intercept the drive, while Tully stood down by the goal, looking slightly stunned as the stampede headed his way. Hitch was bowled over completely, but Spencer managed to get the ball away from Hooper, only to lose it to Turner before his teammates could come to his aid.

Tully, seeing the British team charging toward him unimpeded, swallowed hard and stepped reluctantly forward to meet them, trying to cover all three at once. Turner reached the area in front of the goal and aimed for the space to Tully's left, and the Kentuckian said a quick prayer and dived.

Seeing Tully land on the hard-packed sand with the ball firmly in his grasp, Hitch let out a cheer. "Way to go, Tully!"

"Come on, Hitch," Moffitt urged as he reached the American's side, grabbing his arm and heading toward the opponent's goal.

Gaining his feet, Tully dropkicked the ball to the far end of the field, as close to his teammates as he could.

And so it went. By the last water break, after thirty minutes of play, the Rats and Spencer hadn't yet managed to score, but the all-British team had only gotten past Tully twice. They weren't going easy on their less-experienced opponents, either; Hitch was a particularly favorite target for shoving or tripping, whenever Reverend Warren seemed to be looking the other way. Tully was covered with sand from head to toe, and his teammates weren't much better.

"Well," Hitch sighed in disgust, as they gathered around Troy for water, "I'm getting to use that penalty-shot practice, anyway. Too bad I can't manage to get it into the goal."

"Never mind," Moffitt said encouragingly, "we're really doing much better than I expected."

"Gee, thanks, Sarge." Tully took another swallow from the canteen, then passed it to Spencer.

"Look, the way I see it, you've got two goals here." Seeing the looks he was getting for his inadvertent pun, Troy grinned and shook his head. "_Besides_ the two on the field. Keep them from scoring, which means harassing them any time they get near your goal; and find a way to score a couple yourselves."

Moffitt raised an eyebrow. "Well, that would seem to be a statement of the obvious, Troy. Or did you have in mind a way of doing that?"

"Actually, I've been watching them, and I think I've got something…"


	4. Chapter 4

As the last period of play started, the British team was surprised to see Hitch come forward to meet Hooper for the kick-off, rather than one of his English teammates. Meeting his opponent's gaze, the American shrugged.

"Figured it was my turn," he explained with a grin. Hooper frowned suspiciously; but when the signal was given to start play, Hitch stepped out of his way and let him pass. He let Hooper's teammates pass him as well, and turned to watch, backing toward the British goal as he did.

Spencer dashed forward to intercept Hooper's drive, and Hooper turned away slightly to protect the ball – and collided with Jack Moffitt, who somehow managed to kick the ball toward his own goal in the process. Tully stepped forward to pick up the ball, and Spencer joined Hitch in sprinting down field as the Kentuckian booted it toward the suddenly under-defended British goal. Spencer took control of the ball and started for the right side of the goal, and Hitch headed for the left.

The British goalkeeper was startled by this turn of events, and angled over to meet Spencer's advance. He was never sure, later, at what point the ball suddenly leaped over into Hitch's possession and then into the goal, well out of his reach.

Tully and Moffitt were cheering from down field, and Troy was applauding from the sidelines, as were most of the spectators; the British team stared, in various stages of shock, although Hooper at least was shaking his head and chuckling slightly at being so thoroughly caught out. As the goalkeeper recovered the ball, Hitch and Spencer started back toward their own goal to continue the game, clapping each other on the back as they met up in midfield.

"Well done, lad!" Spencer crowed in delight.

Hitch grinned. "Sarge can plan just about anything! Too bad it won't work twice."

"Maybe they won't expect us to use it twice," Spencer suggested, though he didn't think they could get away with it again either.

The ball continued to move up and down the field for the next several minutes, with no one managing to score, although there were a number of near misses. As they entered the final seconds of play, The Brits made another attempt at the goal, and everyone began the run to the other end of the field, preparing for Tully to launch the ball again.

Moffitt took control of the ball and shot a look in Spencer's direction. Spencer, closer to the goal and covered by one man, rather than the two on Moffitt, nodded, and Moffitt passed it his way. Spencer looked for Hitch and found him opposite the goal, with no one but the goalkeeper defending. Maybe it _could_ work twice …

Seeing Spencer glance his way and anticipating what was coming, Hitch drew a deep breath and looked around. If he could make this shot, the score would be tied. _Is there overtime in soccer?_ He could see that Turner, who had been covering Moffitt, had realized the danger and was headed his way to intercept as Spencer passed the ball. Hitch stepped forward to meet it, saw Turner dive in front of him, and then saw stars.

Michael Warren blew his whistle frantically as he ran toward the two fallen players, and Spencer and Moffitt dashed over as well. Turner extricated himself from the pile and stumbled away as some of the crowd booed in protest. Hitch's teammates reached him as he began to sit up.

"Steady there," Spencer murmured, as he took one elbow and Moffitt caught the other. "Just give yourself a moment."

"Whad habbent?" Hitch gasped, wiping blood from his nose.

"He elbowed you in the face," Moffitt replied in disgust. "Are you all right?"

"Dink so. I was wide oben for dat shot, doo."

"Well, he remembers where he is," Spencer said wryly to Moffitt. "Always a good sign."

Warren leaned over them from behind and offered a clean handkerchief from his own pocket. "Here you are, son."

"Dank you, sir," Hitch replied, pressing the cloth to his face and tilting his head back slightly.

"Nasty business, that," Warren observed sympathetically. "I've removed that lout from the game, and we have just enough time for a penalty kick. Are you up to it?"

Before Hitch could reply, Tully arrived from his post at the other goal to see what was going on. Seeing that his friend was relatively unhurt, Tully grinned and shook his head. "Hitch, only you would try to stop the other guy with your face."

The youngest Rat shot him a halfhearted glare, the effect being spoiled somewhat by the presence of the handkerchief, then looked back to Warren. "Is someone else allowed to dake the penalty kick for me?"

"I believe so, under the circumstances; camp rules are fairly flexible for injuries." Seeing that the four young men before him needed a moment to make the decision, Warren straightened and looked around. "Look, lads, I need to speak with the timekeeper a moment. I'll be right back."

Moffitt and Tully were somewhat alarmed; it wasn't like Hitch to let such a minor injury hold him down. Perhaps he was hurt more severely than they could see.

"Hitch are you sure you're all right?" Moffitt asked.

"Yeah, I'll live. I wad a little dizzy ad first, but it's passed now."

Now Spencer was concerned. "Are you nauseous at all?"

"Easy, there, Medic," Hitch said with a small smile. "I'b had a concussion before, and dis isn't one. On the other hand, if you or Sarge had to dake the shot for me, dat could only be a good thing, right? I haben't made a penalty shot all day."

The other three glanced among themselves, and Moffitt looked over his shoulder at the British team, who had located a substitute for Turner and were conversing quietly by their goal. "Well, men, shall we try it?"

"Can't hurt," Tully said.

"I agree," Spencer added. "Would you like to do the honors, Sergeant, or shall I?"

It was Moffitt that they sent out to make the penalty kick, again hoping that his height might make a difference, particularly since Turner's replacement was about Spencer's size. The others drew off to one side as the British goalkeeper moved to the corner of the goal closest to Moffitt, and the other Brits tried to form a wall between the ball and the goal with their bodies. Moffitt, for his part, was trying to remember everything he had ever learned as a boy about penalty kicking, and wasn't coming up with much. _Around the end, over their heads_ \- maybe if he had a jeep… Glancing to the sideline, he saw Troy under his familiar bush hat, arms folded across his chest, tensely watching the last few seconds of this game in which he claimed no interest.

Signaling Warren that he was ready, Moffitt drew himself up to his full height and lined up to kick the ball around the end of the British line closest to the goal. As he took two quick steps forward to kick, the goalkeeper and the line of men shifted that direction, then tried to shift back as the ball sailed over their heads instead. The goalkeeper scrambled and managed to get his fingertips on the ball, but it slipped past him between the goal markers as the timekeeper signaled the end of regular play.

Moffitt was instantly mobbed by his overjoyed American teammates and a somewhat more sedate Spencer. Laughing with the simple relief of having made the shot, he shook them off and looked around for Warren, saying to the others, "I suppose we negotiate the terms of the tie-breaker now."

Tully and the now somewhat-bruised Hitch deflated visibly at that; as tired as they were of this, it wasn't over.

Warren was approaching from one direction, and Hooper, now acting leader of the British contingent and flanked by his teammates, jogged up from the other.

"Well, lads," the chaplain began, "Shall we take another break, then play a ten minute period or until one team scores?"

"Just a moment," Hooper interjected. "The lads and I talked it over before the penalty kick, and if you'll agree, we'd like to stop here with the tie and call it even. You played a good game, and we'll buy the first round."

The three Rats and Spencer looked at each other, and Tully broke the silence with, "Anytime someone else is buying, I agree with anything he says."

The two Englishmen nodded as well; but then all eyes turned to Hitch. "What do you say, Hitch?" Moffitt prompted. "And we'll buy the second round?"

"Sure," Hitch said, with only the slightest hint of nasal congestion in his tone now that the bleeding had stopped, "since the original argument was partly my fault anyway." Tully elbowed him, and Spencer cleared his throat discreetly. "Okay, at least _half_ my fault. So I'll buy the third round myself."

At the resulting grins, Warren ventured, "I take it we've reached an agreement, then." Stepping back from the little group at midfield, he raised his hands to get the attention of the spectators. As the noise died down, he began speaking in his best "be-heard-in-the-back-pew" voice.

"If I could have your attention: The two teams have talked it over and decided to forego a tie-breaker, and to shake hands and part friends. The match is ended with a score of two each."

The reaction from the crowd was mostly positive, although many of those who had placed wagers on the game voiced their disappointment in the outcome. The spectators slowly dispersed, and Troy joined his fellow Rats and Spencer as they crossed the field with their new friends on the way to seek out the nearest beer. Matching Hitch's stride, he managed to draw the younger man slightly away from the others.

"So," Troy said after a moment, "Was it worth it?"

Hitch sighed. "I guess not."

Troy was glad to see the younger man's face turning red – where it wasn't turning black and blue, anyway. Maybe they'd gotten something out of this after all; maybe Hitch would think twice before letting his temper get away from him, dragging his friends into messes they'd rather avoid.

"But –" the younger man began with a sly smile, and Troy braced himself, "I did get to learn how to play soccer. And we made some new friends," he indicated their former opponents, "and I didn't have much else to do for three days, stuck in camp like we were."

Troy considered slapping the kid with his bush hat, but settled for giving him a shove back toward the others instead.


End file.
